


The Wildling Way

by lit_chick08



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Kink Meme, Knifeplay, Prompt Fic, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 10:06:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lit_chick08/pseuds/lit_chick08
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for the prompt: <i>Jon/Val - knife-play, woman on top, just something playing on how Jon seems to like how lethal and dangerous she is.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wildling Way

He awakes to a blade against the soft flesh of his throat. It is pure instinct which makes Jon rear up, fighting without conscious decision, before his eyes have focused and he can make out his enemy. His opponent is fast, wiry, and he grunts as an elbow strikes his ribs with enough strength to force the air from his lungs. Before he can prepare, he is on his back again, weight settling on his stomach, the blade now pressed with enough force against his vulnerable throat that he can feel warm blood beginning to trickle from the wound, painting his skin with defeat.

"I expected better from the lord of the crows," his aggressor's voice taunts, and it startles Jon to realize the voice is too highly pitched to be a man's, that the weight pinning him down isn't much at all. Finally his eyes adjust, and he can see that the hair the firelight is dancing in is long, blonde ringlets which tumble across unblemished skin.

"Val," he breathes, confusion and betrayal churning in his stomach.

"You're mine now," she declares, amusement ripe in her voice, pressing the knife with a bit more pressure as if to remind him of its presence. "What sort of crow are you? Mayhaps _I_ will have to lead your men while I keep you locked in _my_ cell in skirts." He inhales sharply as she slides the knife away from his neck, posing the tip of the blade over his heart; her other hands rucks up her skirts, and Jon moans at the feel of hot, wet flesh against his bare stomach. 

"Val..."

"Are you a man at all, Jon Snow?" she taunts. She reaches behind her, and Jon fights not to cant his hips up as she finds his half-hard cock. The laugh which slips past her lips is the most beautiful thing he has heard since Winterfell, bright and free in a way even Ygritte's never was. "Oh, you have a man's parts, at least. Do you know how to use them?"

He reaches up with his scarred hand, hungry to touch her, but Val digs the point of the knife into his breastbone, blood blooming from his heart even as she slaps his hand down. Jon hisses sharply between his teeth but complies.

"You've been stolen, Lord Snow. You don't get to do the touching now."

Her hand on his cock is practiced and sure, stroking him until he is as hard as Valyrian steel; he is leaking, desperate for more friction, but Val doesn't give it, keeping her touch just enough of a tease to drive him to distraction.

"I want to see you," he groans as her fingers slip lower, cradling the softest part of him, finding a patch of skin which makes every nerve in his body shake with pleasure.

"It is good to want things," Val replies dismissively, the tip of a finger ghosting over his opening, a tease, a promise, a threat.

He gasps like a maid on her wedding night when Val suddenly takes him inside of her. She is so wet, he wonders what is exciting her more: him or the hold she currently has on his life. Her movements are fluid and graceful, and this is so different from the times he coupled with Ygritte, hidden beneath sleeping furs or in underground caves. Val moves at a more leisurely pace than Ygritte, her eyes fluttering shut in pleasure even as she moves the knife with unerring precision to the unmarked side of his neck. His fingers itch to clutch her hips, to tease her nipples, to pull her down for a kiss, but Jon is not so stupid as to try; Val might bite off his tongue.

"I think I _will_ keep you in my cell," Val moans, her free hand sliding under her skirts. Jon can feel the brush of the back of her hand low on his stomach, moans at the way her inner muscles are fluttering around his cock, and he wants to see the way she is touching herself, wants to be the one to stroke the little bud Ygritte used to drag his hand down to touch. "You aren't so bad at this."

"I'm better when I can actually _do_ something," he grits out in frustration.

The slap across his face startles him, the blade nicking his skin as he jerks from the blow. "Didn't ask for your opinions, Lord Snow."

She is not Ygritte. She is not kissed by fire, does not sweetly whisper to him, does not show him the way; she is not the woman he loved.

But Val is unpredictable, cunning, observant; she will smile pleasantly to your face and then sneak into your cell with a blade. She has been fatally underestimated, and Jon finds he likes it, knowing she can end him; what he likes even more is that _she_ knows it. He thinks of the ladies he knew at Winterfell, the wives of lords who, though flush with inner strength, would never dare raise a hand to their husbands, let alone bloody them before fucking them.

Her cry is sharp and uninhibited; her cunt squeezes him so tightly, Jon loses his breath as he comes; his prick is too sensitive for the way Val continues to grind against it, trying to prolong her pleasure as long as she can, but Jon doesn't dare offer a complaint, not wanting to receive more wounds he will have to explain away in the morning. When she finally slides off of him, Jon isn't sure whether he is grateful or disappointed.

Val finally pulls the blade away from his neck; he can feel the blood getting tacky on his skin, more wounds from a war he never imagined fighting. He doesn't understand why Val grabs his hand, turning his palm up, but he watches in muted fascination as she draws a ribbon of blood from him; she does the same to her own hand before clasping their hands tightly.

"You're mine now, Jon Snow. Till the day you die, your blood belongs to me."

It is a terrifying and arousing concept.


End file.
